


The Lies We Tell Ourselves

by lit_chick08



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, F/M, Kink Meme, Older Woman/Younger Man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-25
Updated: 2012-05-25
Packaged: 2017-11-06 00:37:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/412782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lit_chick08/pseuds/lit_chick08
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The stupidest thing Dacey Mormont ever did was forget that, underneath his armor, Robb Stark is just a teenage boy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lies We Tell Ourselves

**Author's Note:**

> This is honey_wheeler's fault. She's a bad influence.

No man has ever looked at her the way Robb Stark does.

As Dacey sits at the long, trestle table, picking at her supper as the booming voices of her brothers-in-arms echo off of the stone walls, she sees Robb seated at the head table, Lady Catelyn at his right hand, Lord Edmure at his left. The auburn heads of his mother and uncle are both inclined towards him, trying to speak to him about something; though his face is serious, Dacey can see the fire in his blue eyes, which are firmly fixed on her. Dacey knows that look intimately, and she feels her blood begin to warm.

It is beyond silly. He is just a boy, the latest in a string of men she has taken to bed, but the boy-king in the North looks at her as if she is some Lysene love goddess; perhaps it is the way all men look at the first woman they fuck, but Dacey cannot deny how much she likes it. The men she has known before, the ones who were her age, the ones who were older, all treated her the same: polite enough when it suited them but far more concerned with grabbing at her teats and cunt. Only Robb Stark, so green a boy that the first time she took his cock in hand he spilled across her fingers, treats her as if she is more, as if she is his equal. 

Dacey isn't delusional enough to believe that she is; at the end of the day, no matter how compatible they may be in and out of bed, she never loses sight of the fact that he is the king and she is his guard. One day soon he will have to make good on his marriage contract to the Frey girl, and there will be no more nights teaching Robb Stark how to pleasure a woman, no more nights spent finding the sensitive places on his body or acting out every passing thought or fantasy they have.

Judging by the way Robb is staring at her, Dacey knows that night is not _tonight_.

As the night wears on and the drink flows more freely, Dacey finds herself in a conversation with Edmure Tully. He's a terribly handsome man, Robb's uncle, closer to her age than his nephew and well-aware of his considerable charms; at one point, the Lord of Riverrun leans close to her, his hand falling to her knee, and Dacey knows she could fuck him if she wanted. The feel of Robb's eyes on them is tangible, and Dacey knows her king is likely wroth at the situation; she resists the urge to smirk as she continues to allow Edmure to try to lure her to his bed.

By the time Edmure finally gives up his endeavor, Dacey can see the angry clench of Robb's jaw, the fire in his eyes. He is such a jealous thing, always afraid she is fucking some other man. _As if I'd have the time_ , she thinks wryly. What nights are spent in her king's bed are devoted to fighting his war, and Dacey knows better than to fuck another soldier, not if she wants the men to respect her rather than whisper behind her back.

If Catelyn Stark ever finds out she is fucking her precious son, Dacey does not doubt she'll be sent back to Bear Island in a heartbeat.

She rises from her table, intending to return to the cell she shares with her mother, when Grey Wind cuts off her retreat, his massive body keeping her in the hall. The wolf butts her thigh with the flat of his broad head, and Dacey scratches the fur between his ears the way she knows he likes. She senses Robb beside her before she turns her attention from the wolf to his owner, and his body is painfully tense.

“I want you.”

“Do you?” she drawls with feigned disinterest.

“Will you come to me tonight?”

Other kings may have phrased the question like a command, but Dacey knows she can refuse; she knows she can say no, and he would never mention it again. It is part of the reason Dacey allows this to continue; Robb Stark has never once tried to use his status as king as power over her, and it is the clearest indication of his honor as a man.

Dacey shrugs, enjoying the way he seems to tense with frustration even further. “Do I have your leave, Your Grace?”

He nods jerkily, and Dacey barely contains her smile as she walks the corridors of Riverrun. Perhaps it is a bit immature, but Dacey likes to rile Robb Stark, likes to bring out the wolf in his blood. He is so wholly in control during the day as he plays King in the North, as the smallfolk sing of the Young Wolf; watching him unravel, driving him to distraction has become her favorite past time.

She hears the shuffle of feet before Edmure slurs, “Lady Mormont!”

Dacey pauses, turns and sees the Lord of Riverrun stumbling towards her. He is obviously intoxicated after matching Smalljon drink for drink, and the youngest Tully's face is as ruddy as his hair. Dacey would laugh if not for the obvious lust in Edmure Tully's blue eyes; there is nothing Dacey dislikes more than having to tend off drunken lords.

“Lord Tully, do you require assistance?”

His hand falls on her shoulder as he sways uneasily on his feet. “I'm a bit drunk.”

“More than a bit, I'd wager.”

He grins, wide and free, and Dacey is struck by how much he looks like Robb in that moment. Edmure leans forward, his forehead brushing the curve of her jaw, and Dacey leans back slightly at the overwhelming scent of Dornish sour on his breath. “You're very pretty tonight, Lady Mormont.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“You should join me for a cup of wine in my chamber.”

Dacey gently steps away, steadying him with firm hands on his shoulders. “It is a kind offer, but I fear I must decline.”

“Lady Mormont - “

“What is my name, Lord Tully, my _true_ name?” As Edmure's face folds in confusion, obviously searching his brain for her name, Dacey smiles indulgently. “Perhaps it is time you continue on to bed.”

Sighing with defeat, Edmure moves forward, brushing a wet kiss against her cheek in apology. Dacey holds still, allows the contact and then watches as he disappears down the corridor. Shaking her head, Dacey finds her way to Robb's chamber, letting herself in as she has a dozen times before, stoking the fire before stripping down to her skin. There is a heavy fur in front of the fireplace, and Dacey stretches out upon it, letting the fire warm her body the way she had on Bear Island. 

The combination of warmth and the soft press of fur against her skin must lull her to sleep, for the next thing Dacey is aware of is calloused fingers skimming down the length of her body, moist lips suckling at the pulse point in her throat. Dacey moans softly, and she hears Robb's breathing roughen as she pushes back against him.

“I've thought of you all day,” he whispers against her ear, hand slipping over her hip, fingers parting her with precision born from practice. She remembers the first time he touched between her legs, the look of awe on his face as his fingers glided through the wetness he caused, the way he moaned as she used her own hand to show him how she liked to best be touched. “Did you think of me?”

“I am a busy woman, my lord, with many things on my mind.”

Dacey inhales sharply through her nose as Robb's blunt teeth dig into his shoulder. “Did you have time to think of _Edmure_?”

His jealousy is palpable, and Dacey moves away from him, pushing Robb onto his back. He does not resist, but, then, he never does; the boy-king of Winterfell likes for her to be rough, to take control when they are like this. Dacey tugs at the laces of his pants, stripping him with sharp, quick movements; his cock is straining upward towards his stomach, and he grunts as she takes him in hand. The first time she had ever touched his cock, he spilled in her hand after only a half-dozen strokes, shame-faced and panting; now he pushes into her hand, desperate for friction.

“Perhaps I did,” she taunts, straddling his body, rubbing the head of his cock against her cunt, shivering as pleasure crackled through her body. “Perhaps I spent all day dreaming of your uncle's cock. Why, perhaps I even sneaked away during the day and frigged myself - “

Robb tries to sit up, face twisting in anger, and Dacey slides down his cock, her hands pushing at his chest to keep him in place. He moans loudly; he's nearly incapable of being quiet when they couple. The first time she took his cock in her mouth, his shout was so loud, it brought Grey Wind running to rescue him. Now the direwolf remains sleeping on the bed, used to the noise.

“You're mine,” he grits through clenched teeth, his fingers biting into her hips tightly enough to bruise. “You're not his; you're _mine_.”

“I'm _mine_ ,” she snaps, rising and falling, clenching tightly around his cock. “You don't own me, Robb Stark.”

“You're mine,” he insists, startling her by suddenly sitting up, the angle of penetration changing so suddenly it wrings a high, desperate sound from her throat. “You're mine and I'm yours.”

The words furiously stir her, and she is stunned at the visceral reaction they invoke. Her fingers tangle into his thick, auburn curls, and she jerks his head back, glaring at him. “You stupid boy,” she growls, watching as he winces from the pull of her hand and the cut of her words. “You're not mine. You'll never be _mine_. You're some Frey girl's, and I'm just the guard you fuck.”

“No - “

“ _Yes_ , and if you can't tell the difference between loving someone and fucking them, we shouldn't do this anymore.”

Robb stills beneath her, and Dacey does as well at the look of devastation on his face. He has never looked so young before, never seemed so breakable; Dacey is stunned by the raw pain in his eyes, and she shivers as Robb's hands rise to cup her face.

“But I _do_ love you,” he declares, kissing her with aching tenderness. 

Dacey pushes his hands away, climbing off of him despite her body's protestations; she needs to put distance between them, needs for Robb Stark to not be inside her while he says such sweet words. “You don't even know what that means. You're just a boy.”

“I'm not a boy!” he objects, sounding exactly like that which he claims not to be. “And I know what I feel. I know you love me.”

Dacey tugs one of the furs from the bed, wrapping it around her body as Robb stands near the fire; under different circumstances, she would laugh at an angry-faced king with a stiff cock, but there is no humor left in her body. “Of course I love you. You're my king.”

She cannot bear to look at him as his handsome face falls. “And that is who you love, the king and not the man?”

Dacey stares at Grey Wind, who has lifted his head to look at her speculatively, and she tries to make her words as hard as steel as she insists, “You don't love me either, Robb. I'm just the first woman to touch your cock. Once you're with someone else - “

“I don't _want_ someone else!” Robb crosses to the bed, coming to stand behind her. His lips are hot and desperate against her shoulder as he swears, “I will never love anyone the way I love you. Tell me what you want, and I'll do it.”

Dacey knows then and there that there will be no happy ending for herself and Robb Stark, that they only way this can end is with broken hearts and sharp disappointment. Yet she still lets Robb tug the furs from her body, still fucks him boneless on his featherbed and sleeps in the cocoon of his arms until dawn nearly breaks. She is to remain at Riverrun while he marches on the Crag, and Dacey is grateful for the space, hopeful that the separation with show Robb that what he feels for her is nothing more than lust. There is a girl waiting at the Twins to wed the King in the North, and Dacey knows Robb will continue to drag his heels about it as long as she warms his bed.

And then he returns from the Westerlands with a pretty bride who is not a Frey, and Dacey swears the ache in her heart is for the North rather than herself.

There is a small feast to celebrate his marriage to Jeyne Westerling, and Dacey sits silently between her mother and Smalljon Umber while everyone in the room pretends this marriage coupled with the defections of the Karstarks and Freys is not a major blow to their cause. When the dancing starts, Dacey finds herself spun into Robb's arms, and he looks downright pained as he ventures, “You have been avoiding me.”

“There is much to do now that we are without added forces,” she replies, voice cool and formal, the voice of a soldier and not a lover.

Robb flinches at the implication of her words. “You must understand - “

“I do not need to understand, Your Grace. You are the king, and you do not owe your men any explanations.”

“Dacey, _please_ \- “

“Queen Jeyne looks lonely, Your Grace. Perhaps you should dance with _her_.”

His eyes flash bright with frustration and anger as he snaps, “Stop talking to me as if I am just your king!”

“That _is_ all you are to me now,” Dacey retorts, her anger rising in her chest. “So act like a king rather than a stupid boy, and do not make a scene.”

Robb releases her with a fake, pained smile, and Dacey allows Greatjon to spin her about the floor. When Edmure Tully grasps her knee this time, Dacey leans into the caress, allows the Lord of Riverrun to gaze brazenly down the front of her gown, encourages his flirtations. By the time Edmure breathes against her ear, “Will you join me for a cup in my chambers, _Dacey_?” drawing out her name as if it is some grand accomplishment to know it, Dacey is half-drunk on Arbor gold and fully drunk on suppressed anger and betrayal.

She feels Robb's eyes on her as she leaves the hall with Edmure, not daring to look back at him and fully accept what a truly terrible idea this is. By the time they reach Edmure's chambers, the youngest Tully wastes no time stripping the both of them, clumsily palming her breast as he works her thighs apart. He takes no time exploring her body, pays her no compliments or whispers her name like it is something sacred and profane; even before Edmure enters her, Dacey is already calculating how soon she can return to her room.

As Edmure Tully thrusts into her, his mouth sloppily meeting hers, all Dacey can think about is how much he looks like his nephew.


End file.
